


at the end of every tether

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Custody Arrangements, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Past Drug Use, Semi-Canonical Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Oscar's getting better at extracting himself from the messes he makes. The thing is, this one is definitely not his mistake to fix.
Relationships: Oscar "Spooky" Diaz/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. night.

**Author's Note:**

> hey...... how's everyone doing! i'm tentatively back ig but instead of working on my other wip i'm offering u all this instead <3 this is an au in that as always im ignoring the time skip, and also mrs diaz did not die as was stated in s3. title from “what once was” by her’s ! thanks for reading (i anticipate this being p short but also no comment on an update schedule)
> 
> character's attitudes / prejudices do not reflect my own etc etc "negrx" is not a slur but in my experience we default to morenx these days! also penelope is. racist :(
> 
> ps: for anyone who has read my "to live and die in la" series... this is canon leti, not *my* version!! this is wholly unconnected to my series i promise :)

this is less a poem and more a long word  
for the promise of never being hungry again.

(“[water stains](https://the-great-catsby.tumblr.com/post/118713808467/luckystrabismus-water-stains-i-didnt-know-what)”)

* * *

The sound of someone banging on the door is what wakes him up. It’s loud—police-style knocking, heavy and reverberating. Has Oscar jerking awake by the third time whoever’s hand it is makes contact with the door. Next to him, Leti’s got an arm slung across his waist, her hair in a bonnet, expression still lost to dreams. Any other time he’d clown her for sleeping through the racket; considering what this type of middle-of-the-night knocking usually means, it’s probably for the best.

He and Cesar have been living in this place for a few months now—Pico Union isn’t his first choice, but the owner of this apartment couldn’t care less about what Oscar looks like, so long as he’s paying rent on time every month. It’s a two-and-a-half bedroom, on the second floor of a set of complexes circling the parking lot. Oscar’ll never get over having to sell his car but getting Cesar the fuck out of Freeridge took precedence, and laser removal’s expensive as hell.

Leti keeps telling him that she’ll cover some of the treatments, but he’s not about to have his girl paying for shit that’s his own fault. Doesn’t matter that they’ve been together—for real this time, not like that are-we-aren’t-we shit they did for years—since he got out the summer of ‘18. It hasn’t been two years yet but he’s known her too long to think this isn’t a forever thing. Hell, they nearly got married one time, before he got locked up, in Vegas with fakes and having the time of their lives.

Either way, he’s getting better at extracting himself from the messes he makes.

Whoever it is hasn’t stopped knocking by the time Oscar gets to the door, and he’s a little grateful that he’s the only one who’s woken up. When he checks the peephole he just sees a small dark figure—a woman, he thinks, bags slung over both her arms. He double checks the chain lock before opening the door, has a baseball bat in one hand besides. Knows that whoever it is wants someone to answer, even if he hopes it’s a case of some shorty at the wrong place.

“Can I help you?” He doesn’t say it too nicely. It’s probably four in the morning already, and even if it’s technically Saturday that doesn’t mean he wants to be up at all hours. He’s too old for this shit, he’s pretty sure.

“Soy yo,” the woman says, and Oscar drops the bat he’s holding at the same time a baby snuffles.

He hasn’t heard his mother’s voice in years. He wants to pretend he’s forgotten it, that it never mattered to him in the first place. It’s not true, but he wants it to be. Wants to forget about the nights he’d stay up to make sure she didn’t choke on her own vomit, the times she’d tell him he was going to turn out like his father only to turn around and say he was the only reason she was still alive. She used to dote on Cesar when she could, touch his hair and admire the only good thing she’d ever made. On that, at least, they agreed.

Oscar might’ve had a record, and he might’ve been a high school dropout, but he had his GED and zero history of substance abuse. His mother, caught shooting up in a fucking Walgreens bathroom, couldn’t say the same, and at eighteen Oscar found himself with custody of a freshly-turned nine-year-old Cesar, who couldn’t figure out why their mother wasn’t around anymore.

To say he made a mess of it is an understatement, considering he ended up locked up for four years, but at least he’s not a fucking dope-fiend, he thinks. What matters is that he didn’t choose to leave Cesar—well. Recent events complicate that claim, a little bit. Leti had to convince him that maybe family therapy wasn’t just for white folks trying to convince themselves they were human, and now once a week he and Cesar sit in the office of some shrink with pocho Spanish while she tells them they’re not trying hard enough. Usually they get burgers afterwards. They’re doing better. They’re getting there.

What all of this means is this: they don’t need their mother. They needed a real one, all those years ago, but that’s not what the universe gave them, and they’ll be dealing with the aftermath for a while longer. It’s meant to be behind them, is the thing. Except the woman standing in front of him has his mother’s voice, and there’s a baby in her arms, and Oscar’s not quite sure this isn’t all a dream.

He says, hoping it isn’t, “Ma?”

“Jesus Christ, I been knocking how long now, niño?” she says, and it’s like Oscar’s seventeen again, never enough for his mother until all of a sudden he’s too much. She says, in Spanish, “Let me in, let me in,” and he moves on autopilot to listen to her. Everything is still dark; he hadn’t bothered turning any of the lights on, had hoped it was a misunderstanding and he could crawl back into bed with his girl. He reaches out, now, flicks on the living room light, and blinks at his mother, who makes a face at the small dimpled hand that reaches out to tug on her hair.

“You too old to be having kids still,” Oscar says, voice low and vaguely horrified. He does the math—nineteen when he was born, and he’s twenty-five now, birthday not until the end of the year. Means Penelope is forty-four, and the baby in her arms old enough to be reach out and grab for things. When he gets a good look his breath catches; the kid looks like Cesar did, at that age. Oscar wasn’t even ten when he was born, remembers those days clearly.

When Penelope frowns it’s almost the same face as Oscar remembers; she’s not so thin anymore, though she has some new wrinkles, crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes. Even in the shitty yellow light of their discount lamp he can see the gray strands peeking through her dark hair—not a lot, but new. There are bags under her eyes, but that was normal back in the day, too.

She says, “You know how long I been looking for you?”

“How’d you do it?” Oscar doesn’t like the thought of being easy to track down. He burnt a lot of bridges trying to get out of Freeridge. He’d do it again, though.

She scowls. “I’m your mother. Si te busco, te encuentro. You ain’t gonna offer me water or nothing?”

He takes a deep breath; says, after, “Wait here,” and grabs a glass of water for her. His hands are shaking. When he walks back into the living room she’s bouncing the baby in her arms, fussy now. There’s a pink bow in her hair, maybe a year old at most. His mother’s focused on the couple of photos he’s got up on the walls—old school pictures of Cesar, some baby photos that Oscar salvaged. There’s a strip of photos from a photobooth tucked in the corner of one frame, Leti kissing his face until he’s kissing her back, and he feels a strange sense of discomfort at his mother analyzing it.

“Sigues con esa negra, eh?” she asks, and he flinches.

Says, glass still in his grip, “Don’t start with that shit. They’re still sleeping.”

“You really living with her? Thought she was just your _friend_.”

“Yeah,” he says, “shit’s changed with us.” The _not you_ is understood, from the way her expression goes tight. He offers her the water, though, and she takes it.

Penelope shifts the baby a little bit, takes a sip. “How long you been here?”

“A few months,” he says. Can’t help himself when he says to her, “You gonna ask about Cesar at all?”

“He looks normal,” she says, and her eyes fall back to the most recent of school photos that Cesar had taken. He’s grinning broadly, like none of the past year has touched him. He looks less like their mother the older he gets. Oscar’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing; he’s always looked like their father, after all. She says, voice a little softer, more tender, like maybe she did miss him, “He doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says. It sounds like a sigh. He looks at the same picture she’s looking at, imagines all the things it doesn’t show. “He’s doing real good. Talking ‘bout college already.”

Penelope hums. Clears her throat, takes another sip of water. “Good,” she says, not looking at Oscar. She makes a face at the baby again, presses her mouth to the crown of her head afterwards. “I’m glad one of you ended up okay, at least.”

It stings. Always does. Worst part is she probably means it, doesn’t think what she’s said is wrong. And maybe in some ways it’s true. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a little bitter, though.

He says, “Whatchu doing here?”

Finally, she looks at him. He thinks, again, about how exhausted she looks. She says, “They gave him back to you, after you got outta the joint?”

He stiffens. “Whatchu you know ‘bout that?”

“I got my people,” she says, and he scowls.

“Who?” he demands, “I ain’t tryna have anybody know where I stay at, Ma. You shouldn’ta been able to find me at all.”

“I’m your mother,” she repeats. Shrugs a little, cuts her eyes to the side when she says, “You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that. I don’t got nobody to tell it to.”

“Oh yeah?” Oscar wouldn’t put it past someone from 19th Street to shake her down for information, but as far as anyone in Freeridge knows Penelope Diaz doesn’t exist anymore. It’s not like she had friends out there, and if she’s been looking for Oscar—and found him in Pico Union—it’s not likely that she’ll be back, ever. Probably better for anyone with the last name Diaz to stay out of there, even if Penelope married into it.

“Yeah,” she says. She stares at him. He asks her again what she wants, and she says, “No me ves?”

She’s got a baby bag on one arm, duffle on the other; he can see the straps of a backpack, gray and dusty, coming up over her shoulders. The baby’s haphazardly strapped to her chest in one of those carriers that always looked like more trouble than their worth—when Cesar was a baby, and when Penelope was temporarily clean, she used to wrap him with a _rebozo_ , his small body perfectly tucked against hers while she moved through the house. She’s dressed in layers tonight, not like she’s cold but like everything she’s got is on her.

Oscar’s stomach sinks, even as he says, “I don’t have money.”

Penelope scoffs. “’Course not,” she says, “you out here in _Pico Union_. You forget who you are, mijo?”

“You in my house, vieja,” he says. Cold. He sounds like his father used to, hates himself for it fiercely. Doesn’t matter that Ray calls once a week, that he’s doing better now. The anger is slow to fade—maybe Leti’s therapy ideas have more worth than Oscar wants to admit. “Whatever you want, you came all the way out to see me. Don’t even know where you been at.”

She says, ignoring most of what he’s said like usual, “I don’t want your money.”

“Why else you here at four in the morning?”

“This is your sister,” she says, instead, and Oscar feels heavy all over again. He knew that, he thinks. She looks too much like Cesar did. Part of him was kind of hoping he was wrong. Would almost rather have Penelope admitting to kidnapping than producing another kid stuck with _her_ as their mother.

“No shit,” he says to her, like he’s not feeling a little sick, “didn’t take you for stealing kids, since you left your last two.”

She flinches, but snaps back, “You wasn’t a kid back then.”

“I was eighteen,” he says. Angry, now. He didn’t know what he was doing back then, still barely thinks he’s on the right track now. All because she couldn’t get her act together. Not for him, not for Cesar. And from the looks of it, not for this little girl, either. “ _Barely_.”

Penelope says, “You don’t wanna know her name?” When Oscar doesn’t answer she says, “Ines.”

“Y su apellido?”

“She has mine.”

“Which one?”

She’s scowling when she answers. “Diaz.”

“You telling me you went to see him?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snaps, and the baby pushes her hands against her mouth for a second before Penelope tugs her fingers away, far gentler than Oscar was expecting. “It was easier, alright?”

“So you don’t know—”

“ _Don’t_ start.” She looks mad, this time. Oscar looks from her to the baby. Ines. Cursed with the Diaz name anyway.

“How old is she?”

“Ten months,” she says. “She’ll be one in March.”

“Why you here?”

Her lip trembles—Oscar’s almost shocked to see it. “I can’t work,” she says. She sounds bitter. “Can’t find a job, pa’ empezar, but even if I could who am I gonna leave her with, huh? I been stuck with the fucking Salvation Army since she was born.”

“Thought you had to be clean to stay with them.”

“I _am_.”

“Yeah?” he says, nasty again, “how long it take you?”

She inhales, sharp, nostrils flaring while she glares at him. She says, “I see you ain’t learned to keep your mouth shut, eh.”

“Didn’t do neither of us any good, Ma,” he says. Slouches in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. The walls are the color of café con leche, curtains white and lacy. Leti’s idea—she stays roasting him for never replacing the sheets that Adrian had put up as curtains, all those years ago, refused to believe he had the place the tiniest bit nicer before he got locked up. Not that it matters; it’s not like they’re still living there, Freeridge nothing but a bad memory.

In her arms, the baby—Ines—is still fussing. From what Oscar can tell she’s in a onesie, looks like a little lemon with the way her face is all scrunched up. He knows she’s going to cry before she starts, and tries not to groan when it quickly becomes clear that his mother still doesn’t know how to actually do her job.

“Dámela,” he says, finally, when Ines only starts to get louder, and tries not to let his disgust show when his mother all-too-eagerly hands her over. She fits in his arms like Cesar used to, when they were just kids and Oscar had to pick up the slack as a middle schooler. She sniffles, like she’s getting over a cold, and seems more uncomfortable from that than from a stranger holding her—because that’s all Oscar is, doesn’t matter that Penelope says she’s his sister. He says, “Just say what you want.”

“I can’t take care of her,” Penelope says.

“And?”

“You did good with Cesar,” she says. Looks at the pictures of him on the walls, again. “You was young but they gave you custody, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, slowly. There’s an undercurrent of fury when he speaks; he hopes his mother can tell, even as he reminds himself not to scare the baby in his arms. “They gave me custody ‘cause you was in and outta rehab, _seven years_ ago. You telling me you really ain’t changed since then?”

His mother stares at him. Her mouth is pursed, eyes clearer than he’s ever seen them. She says, “I’m giving her up. Figured I’d ask if you wanted her, first, is all.”


	2. morning.

This place could be beautiful,  
right? You could make this place beautiful.

("[good bones](http://waxwingmag.org/items/Issue9/28_Smith-Good-Bones.php)")

* * *

They sleep on the couch. Oscar pulls spare blankets out of the linen closet, watches the baby while his mother hops into the shower. He has to convince himself not to check on her, make sure she’s not shooting up. He goes through the baby bag instead, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch while Ines makes sleepy noises, stretched out next to him.

She looks just like Cesar did. Oscar does a quick internet search, reads that ten-month-olds should be afraid of strangers, should want mom or dad near them instead. Figures Penelope’s fucked this kid up already, he thinks, watching Ines pat his leg sleepily, her eyelashes fanning out and painting shadows across her cheeks. He feels something tender settle in his lungs, tries to ignore it. He raised one of his mother’s children already, assuming raising himself doesn’t count. He’s barely out of the life. If he wanted a baby he’d have one.

And he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t watch Ines sleep for at least a little while.

The baby bag is old, tattered. Inside there’s diapers and formula and little outfits. Hair bows in different colors, the same style as the one that’s nearly fallen off Ines’ head already. He reaches out, plucks it from her hair. She barely stirs, her hand resting against his sleep shorts. When Cesar was little, they used to sit like this too—Oscar doing homework on the floor while the kid babbled to himself.

There isn’t nearly enough supplies in this bag to last longer than a week. Oscar knows it instinctively, no matter that he hasn’t had to raise a baby from day one all by himself before. Leti had a scare over the summer, the absolute last thing they needed with all that Cuchillos shit happening, and for days Oscar was dreaming of the math, trying desperately to make numbers add up when he knew they wouldn’t. In the end they were lucky.

But clearly his mother wasn’t. She’s got another baby she can’t take care of, and here she is asking if he wants to take her. _You can say no_ , she said. _I’ll leave her somewhere else_. Where can she take a ten-month-old? That fire station thing is for newborns, not a baby who can wave goodbye already. This baby deserves a chance with a real family, but…

Oscar’s heard the horror stories. Has read the news articles, avoids the Netflix documentaries. There are so many kids without good homes, he thinks. He was one of them, and then Cesar was, too. It’s not fair that there should be another Diaz without anything to show for it. Maybe someone would adopt her. Maybe…

He looks from the baby bag—repacked, reorganized even—to Ines. Her moue of a mouth. When he picks her up she barely stirs, just settles into his arms like she hasn’t got a care in the world. Of course she doesn’t. She’s warm and safe for once. He presses his nose to her hair, breathes in that baby smell that he remembers Cesar had.

He can’t, he tells himself. He can’t. Babies cost money, same as teenagers do. He might be working a real job now, but driving doesn’t pay all that well when it’s local routes and year one in the position. It’s _enough_ but they’re not living like kings, no matter that Leti lives with them now and splits the bills, RollerWorld blood money he doesn’t want to touch. None of it means it’s a good idea to start all over, least of all without his girl’s input. She didn’t even want a baby, said so after their summer scare— _I’m not trying to make any more Diazes, Oscar, so don’t get any ideas_ —and why would she want this one?

But the thing is… Oscar’s looking at Ines, asleep in his arms, and he knows he wants to say he’ll take her, no matter that he’s not sure it’s a good idea. No matter that the courts might not agree, or that he’s got to tell Leti and Cesar what’s going on. Christ, Cesar. He hasn’t seen their mother in seven years. What will he think? _Ma ran off and got clean and had a baby_. She fucked up again. She ain’t changed enough for it to make a difference, and now it’s time to clean up her mess again.

That’s not fair. Oscar knows it. But it’s not fair, either, to let this poor kid suffer for it too.

By the time Penelope’s out it’s closer to five. She looks… different. Oscar can’t place it. Like a version of herself that he never could have anticipated. Her hair is damp, but her eyes are clear, and for a split-second he almost feels guilty for thinking she was shooting up in the bathroom. He’s still holding the baby, though, and he doesn’t like the knowing look in her gaze.

He waits for her to put her stuff down near the couch to hand Ines over. He says, voice rough, “You ain’t gonna split, right?”

She scowls. “No. Wouldn’t matter even if I did.”

“I didn’t say I’m taking her,” Oscar says, even if he can’t keep himself from glancing at the baby again, lost to whatever dreams a ten-month-old must have.

“I would take her with,” Penelope says, and then smirks at whatever face Oscar must make. “No quieres que la lleve, huh? Whatchu just say to me again?”

Oscar takes a step away from her. Thinks of Cesar knocked out in his bedroom like he was when Oscar checked on him before bed, of Leti asleep and no doubt in his spot instead of hers. He says, “I’ll see you in the morning,” and turns his back on them. Part of him hopes it’s all a dream.

When he wakes up next it’s to Leti looking unimpressed. She’s let her hair down already, which means she must have gotten up and—shit.

“What time is it,” Oscar says, and she puts one hand on his chest when he tries to sit up.

“Oh no,” she says, “don’t you worry about that. You should be worried about what I’m gonna do to you if you don’t answer this question right.”

“Leti—”

“Tell me why there’s some bitch with a baby in my living room,” she says. Her eyes are almost hazel in this light. Oscar’s one hundred percent sure she wishes she could kill him with her expression alone. “’Cause last I heard, you and me been together since summer twenty-eighteen, which means—”

“It’s my mom,” Oscar says, and she stops. Furrows her eyebrows a little bit when she looks at him.

“…Say sike,” she says, and lets him sit up. He puts both feet on the floor, stretches. “Oscar.”

“She showed up last night,” he says. His phone says _10:31_. Leti could sleep until noon if she wanted—she and Cesar have that in common, besides trying to clown Oscar every second of the day. They get along like homies do, and Oscar’s glad for it. “You ain’t hear nothing?”

“I’m a heavy sleeper,” she says, still sitting in bed while he moves to get dressed, “why didn’t you wake me up?”

“For what?” He dresses nearly the same, no matter that there’s no colors he has to stick to in this part of the city. “They just slept.”

“She didn’t say nothing?”

“That she’s clean, yeah.”

Leti snorts, looks guilty when he catches her eyes in the mirror. “You believe her?”

“Maybe,” he says, instead of _yes_ , or _I want to_.

“How’d she find us?” Leti’s eyes are narrowed. Her mom doesn’t live in Freeridge anymore, hasn’t for ages; like Oscar, Leti cut all ties with the neighborhood when it became clear the Santos weren’t going to keep them alive. And just like Oscar, she’s long known to look over her shoulder.

“No dijo.”

“And that baby?”

Oscar finally turns to look at her. She’s in a sweatshirt she got thrifting, stretchy black pants and fuzzy socks. Her curls are loose, her expression serious. He as good grew up with her, her mom Colombian and her pops some deadbeat Chicano in and out of the joint on DV charges. _Fine ass Leti_ , everyone used to call her, the two of them on-and-off like any other pair of dumbass kids.

He says, “You don’t wanna know her name?”

She doesn’t look impressed. “Did she steal her, or did she get knocked up again?”

Oscar wrinkles his nose. Says, in lieu of an answer, “She says she’s gonna give her up soon.”

Leti stares at him. When she speaks he’s not surprised by what she says. “Don’t tell me you said you’d take that little girl.”

“I didn’t.”

“Oscar,” she says, and gets up from the bed, stops in front of him. She puts both her hands on his waist. “You’re thinking about it,” she says, and when he says nothing she frowns, her voice more insistent when she speaks again: “Aren't you?”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” he says, honest, but… “Her name’s Ines.”

“Goddamn it,” she says, her hands dropping away from him. “If we didn’t want a baby over the summer—”

“This ain’t the same,” he says. He wants to grab her hands but resists the urge. She likes to gesture when she talks, and it stings a little to have her push his hands away, especially if she’s in a bad mood. “She said she can’t take care of her.”

“She couldn’t take care of you neither,” Leti says, her expression more severe, “ _or_ Cesar. You saying it was a great idea, that they gave you custody when you was barely legal? I remember you back then, you know.”

“You think I was gonna let them put him in foster care? Knowing how that shit is?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know that,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest, sighs. “Fuck. You really wanna take care of another kid? What happens when she has more?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “She’s too old for that.”

“Or they fixed her, maybe,” Leti says, almost to herself, and rolls her eyes at whatever face he makes. “How old is she?”

“In her forties.”

“Not your mom, foo,” she says, and finally wraps her arms around him. “The baby. Ines.”

“Oh,” Oscar says, but hugs her back as he says, “not even a year. Guess her birthday’s in March.”

“You know just ‘cause you have Cesar doesn’t mean they’ll give you another one,” Leti says, and he’s not sure if he should be hopeful or concerned that she seems to be on the same page as him, “especially since you did so much time.”

“Possession ain’t one of those charges where they keep kids from you.”

“Yeah, but a judge might wonder.” She looks up at him, mouth pursed. “Then again, if it’s between you and your mom, well. I’d choose you, too.”

“Thought you already did,” Oscar says, and cups her face. She rolls her eyes.

“Shut up and kiss me, foo,” she says, and so he does. When they separate she asks, “Your mom know I’m here?”

“Yeah.” He takes her hand, pulls her towards the door so they can walk out together. He needs to brush his teeth still. “She saw those pictures we took, at that photobooth.”

“Those are nice,” she says, frowning a little. She trails after him, watches from the doorway while he brushes his teeth and washes his face, scolding him when he uses her face wash. It smells good.

“Close the door so I can piss,” he says.

“Why?” she says, and smirks at him, “I’ve seen it already.”

“Mujer,” he says, but she shuts the door and laughs, and afterwards they go to the kitchen together. It opens right up to the living room, where he can see Penelope is awake already, baby Ines in her lap.

Leti steps away from him, moving towards the coffee maker. His mom never liked anyone he was running with, Santos related or no. And Leti, _fine ass Leti_ , who talked shit just like him and had a worse attitude, well. She wasn’t much of an exception.

He stands in the archway and says, tentative like he never is, “Morning.”

Penelope looks up, glancing from him and back to the baby before she answers. “Good morning.”

Oscar shifts. “You sleep alright?”

“Fine.” The baby coos.

“She eating real food yet?”

“Sometimes.” Whatever talkative mood she was in last night has disappeared; Oscar shouldn’t let it hurt his feelings.

Leti must be able to sense whatever he’s feeling. The bang of a pan on the stove is abruptly loud, and both he and Penelope flinch at the sound of it. In her arms, Ines starts up the baby talk.

“Perfect,” Leti says, voice full of forceful cheer, “we can make us all eggs. Scrambled for the baby.” When she smiles it’s with all her teeth—everything about her Freeridge born and raised, still there underneath the new life they’re trying to build. “Como estás, _suegra_?”

His mother keeps from curling her lip, but only barely. Oscar tries to keep his eyes on her face, but he can’t help but watch Ines, squirming in her grip.

“Leticia,” she says, no longer deadpan but carefully controlled. She was like this, before. Detached until she wasn’t, temper as bad as Oscar’s. Ray was the calm one, usually, but he knew how to get loud, too. The three of them are as different as they are similar, Cesar the only one of them worth anything. “What a surprise to see you.”

“Is it now,” Leti says, and pointedly looks to Oscar, her Spanish crisp, “your son was just telling me you showed up last night. How you like Pico Union?”

Goddamn it.

Penelope sniffs. “Seen worse.”

“Yeah, Freeridge is a bitch,” Leti says, sickly sweet, “you still take your coffee black?”

“Yes,” Penelope says, everything about her clearly uncomfortable. The baby starts to sniffle. Their mother bounces her a little, but it doesn’t help. Oscar can see the tears rear their head. Cesar was the same way.

He says, “Come sit with us, then,” and pretends not to notice the way she glares at him. He comes close, says, “I can take her,” Penelope’s eyebrows raised high.

“She’s fine,” Penelope says, even as the baby’s face scrunches up. She passes her to him easily, though, nothing resistant about her or Ines, who frowns but just pats at Oscar’s chest when he gets her settled in his arms.

He says again, “Come sit with us,” and Penelope heaves a sigh.

“Fine,” she says, and follows him the short way to the kitchen, where she sits in the seat Cesar usually does. He won’t be up for another little while. The only way to wake him up before noon on weekends is with chorizo and eggs, and when he looks at the counter all Leti’s pulled from the fridge is the carton and shredded cheese.

“You need help?” he asks her, and she shakes her head, a considering look on her face.

“No, I’m fine,” she says. She’s looking at Ines like she’s never seen a baby before, eyes moving between her and Oscar like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. Ines watches her right back, dark eyes curious, before tilting her head up at Oscar like she wants to ask him a question. Leti cracks a smile.

“You make some good looking babies, suegra, I’ll give you that,” she says, and Oscar sees her smirk as she turns back to the stove, cracking eggs over the pan breaking the yolk with a rubber spatula.

Penelope’s face twists up in annoyance, and Oscar tries to hold back a sigh. He should have known better. Then he looks at Ines, gnawing on her sleeve with bedhead, and thinks that maybe it could be worse.


End file.
